Justin

Pop is a ****ing verb, man. A verb. As in an action you do to balloons, bubbles, pimples, and the back of the heads of fools who dare to refer to soft drinks/soda/coke as 'pop'. That said, my wife is from Minnesota, and she says pop. God, it makes my skin crawl. But to be fair, I call all of it 'coke'. If I say "Want a coke?" the implication is that you'll then specify further. Such as "Yeah, a regular Pepsi or RC, if you got it." Or maybe, "Sure, I'll take Sunkist." So, I guess that's pretty idiotic too. But at least it's in the ballpark. Not some random verb I pulled out of nowhere. I think from now on, I'll call it all 'take'. What kind of take would you like? -Justin

I'd like to debate civil liberties with John Calvin. Or party with Sid Vicious. He'd hate me, but it's my dead-guy-hangout time, he has to play by my rules. Hehe, that makes me like a fascist or something. -Justin

[quote name='chibi-master']Apples with slices of cheese on them are one of my favorite snacks!:catgirl:[/QUOTE] That's just disturbing. Like ketchup and potato chips...ick. I was stationed in California for a little over a year. Anyone here who knows me knows that I'm from Alabama. Therefore, I like sweet tea. I had no access to sweet tea for a year. I have, since coming on board the new station in Georgia, gained three pounds. I blame sweet tea. And good barbeque. And good fried chicken. And Bojangles. And Waffle House. And all the other things about the South that make it the glorious and alluring land that I love. Mainly awfully unhealthy food. Have you ever deep fried a Snicker bar? Go do that. You'll hate life when it settles on your unprepared stomach, but good googly moogly, it's good on the way down. -Justin

[IMG]http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash1/hs264.ash1/19146_647061502040_63906015_37393519_2604286_n.jpg[/IMG] [IMG]http://hphotos-snc3.fbcdn.net/hs164.snc3/19146_647061576890_63906015_37393533_1898371_n.jpg[/IMG] The obligatory wedding day photos of me and my wife, Danielle. [IMG]http://c3.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images01/60/l_c60fca6f564bc4323eddb56a9a227bf2.jpg[/IMG] [IMG]http://c1.ac-images.myspacecdn.com/images02/151/l_431e6ef7e83b4f93b00b62f2e4bae848.jpg[/IMG] And the obligatory photos of me [i]before[/i] signing my life--and hair--away. -Justin

Don't you love people who skip the funny part and go into totally incongruous details barely pertaining to the conversation? I heard a Japanese metal band [i]once[/i]. I haven't given a damn about Japanese culture since. I know one thing: Wherever [i]that[/i] could get a following, I don't want to be. -Justin

It was a Tuesday night on I-85 at a 123 miles per hour, and I was rather drunk. A pig had just picked up my trail, no telling where he came from, everything was pretty blurry. That happens, turns out, when you're rather drunk. Blue flashing lights always spook me. I play it tough for the Bacon's sake, but they always set me right jumpy. Product of living poor and reckless. And it so happens, turns out, being jumpy at a 120 mph, drunk on the highway, ain't a good mix. I don't remember much after the blue flashing lights suddenly went into my blind spot; almost like they were little orbs of fire behind a small tree. The light of them bounced off my mirrors and the trees, waking the ghosts of dead poor folks in a mighty rage; but I couldn't see the lights themselves. It was like God was on my tail. Appropriate. I'd always felt I was just three steps out of his grasp. Like he was aching to pull me down into hell. I always did see things a little different from the way I was supposed to. In my mind, it wasn't the Devil lying in wait. Like so many tongue-speaking Brother Sams or Sister Shirleys of my past had warned me of. In my mind, God was the bad guy. Like a hungry, fat wolf. Fast, sure. But I was faster, for the time. Not that day. Big oak trees don't bend the way you think they might when a hunk of steel hits them going real fast. Nothing like the cartoons. That was 1968. It was a big time in the South. Lots of noise about lots of things I didn't give a damn about. It's amazing how much 35 years of observation can do to change a man into something altogether different from what he was. I didn't die right off. You'd think I would have, but it happens that way I guess. The pig did. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Rain falls on the just and wicked, alike, they say. When he found me, I don't have the faintest idea what I looked like. I don't remember ever being aware of what was happening. I naturally assumed Godsatan had finally caught me, and I was in hell. It burned there. Mostly in my head. I felt like the pentecostal tongues of fire were dancing in my brain, mocking my poor luck at being born unwilling to kneel. Or fall down, whichever term best suits your idea of church. Point being, it fucking burned. From my head, the fire followed my spinal cord and I felt like the branches of my nervous system were whips. They lashed me again and again. I felt like Jim Christ; Jesus' twin brother who got the short end of the stick when it came to life after death. After a spell, I could feel the muscles in my body literally being eaten away. The whipping was gone now, but it gave under a feeling that seemed like being boiled alive in vinegar. My bones ached from the inside out. I had an uncle with lukeimia once. He said it felt a lot like that. He shot himself with his .22 rifle. Man never would've hurt a fly on a turd. Shot himself. Deacon at his Baptist church. Shot himself. Wife cried and lifted her little hands toward heaven in supplication as her husband lay there dead in an open casket while everyone sang Amazing Grace. He'd shot himself. No. God is the devil. Or the devil is God. Take your pick. My eyes, bless it, that was the worst. I still feel that pain, just thinking about it. Felt like they lost all substance. Didn't go away, just melted into semi-liquid. I could still vaguely percieve light through them, though. Like they were functioning, even though they were soup. I wasn't at all suprised when I sat up, suddenly. Almost like being startled awake from a too-real dream. Except I knew this one had been real. I could still feel the shock in my body from the nerve-whips. My hands still ached under the strain of broken, torn, and now reforming muscles. Only now I wasn't drunk. I was sober as an honest judge--if there were such a thing. I was in a hole, too. Cold and deep. I was waiting on the next round in hell. Staring at the blackness, staring at me. I could see the whole chamber like it was light from inside the dirt and rock, but I also knew it had to be black as pitch. No light source, other than the non-glowing, illuminated walls. Something moving, barely discernable against the luminescent peatbog black. "Hello, Bran." -Justin

I think the stars must've aligned to create a prime environment for a lot of decade-ish members to come back and prod the old beast. Maybe HBomb or Altron Gundam will turn up next. -Justin

I speak Farsi, Dari, Tajiki and reasonable French. I can understand the gist of a lot of simple Arabic, but I can't formulate a phrase outside of 'la aref alarabiah' just because when I say "I can [i]understand[/i] a [i]little[/i] Arabic",I sometimes get unlucky and someone happens to know it fluently, thus rattling off something I either can't understand, or don't know how to respond to. However, Farsi I can carry on about as well as anyone who didn't grow up with it, I guess. And Dari is basically the same thing with a more Arabic-ish accent. As is Tajiki, albeit with a bit more of a rooski-sounding accent. That, and I can't read Tajik at all. -Justin

[quote name='chibi-master']Justin, would you mind if I used your description for my Global class? We're learning about the Dark Ages right now, sooo...[/QUOTE] By all means, it's been a long time since I was quoted. -Justin

Did I? I think I just come off that way without necessarily meaning to. To this day, I'm still kind of known as a grouch. You ever think about how much time we've flushed down the Otaku toilet over the course of nine years? It's insane. I honestly think of that small group I mentioned as like, legitimate early high school buddies. And I talked to you guys about as much as any IRL friends I had at the time. The Interwebs be a strange beast. -Justin **On a side note, I just realized that by the time my contract with the Navy is up, I'll have an OtakuBoards member for as long as I had been alive when I joined in the first place. [i]Creepy[/i].

I'm just gonna say this, and then I'm done. I feel I have to. It's a moral choice to do what I'm about to do. Ok, go: I fought the LOL and the LOL won. -Justin **{apologize}{/apologize}

I never saw that movie, but I have to wonder at how he could've stood out, in the middle of town square, hollering for children with the offer of "cream pops" and "ice cream" and none of those adults came out and called the police. This leads me to believe that all the adults were congregated in the local opium den, chasing the dragon. The two that came out to yell after the children were clearly only upset that the kiddy chaser thought of free candy and ice cream before they did. I wept at the state of Smalltown, UK. Or wherever that was supposed to be. -Justin

From the memoirs of the sea captain Lynn, High Thane of the Galur Coast and Captain of the Jade Trident: [i]"I am a rare individual, now in my age. Not because I am a Northman, or a gentleman; but because I think myself rare not for these things. You see, I have had, in my long life, the opportunity to see much of the world. And to live on the very frontier of the so-called 'civilized' world. We Northmen take our superiority as granted. Whether by virtue of our color, our vigor, or our 'superior' mental faculties, we are a people bestriding the world and declaring ourselves over all other races, beings, and peoples. But I know quite different. You see, we all know of our brethren, those who live by the 'Old Custom'. That is, those sons of Norsong who choose not the bestride the world and rule it and all its peoples, but rather to live as all our people did thousands of years ago--as barbarians. Those who choose a life of plundering anything within sailing distance, and each other. We hold them, however, not as we hold, say, the men of the Red Hills in Oman Galur. Those men who've come out of the deserts and jungles to serve and learn from our colony on the coast. They, it is our common belief, live an inferior existence. A conquered existence. Yet those of the Old Custom back home in Norsong, are the 'noble barbarians' who choose a life closer to the ancestors. Living this way, in our minds, as a sacrifice. We fought no war with the men of the Red Hills. We traded with them, and in the days of slavery, we exported and imported them to every far flung land within our hegemony. But I have eaten with these men. Both those who speak the common tongue, and those further south who do not, but respect our 'friendship' with their more coast-bound kin. I have seen the remnants of a civilization, vastly older than our own. One that serves to remind me of the Unons at Jaga, or even the Orcs at Marzhoth. And I have heard tales, so alike in every far-slung town and camp and village, yet without a scrap of it written on paper. These tales tell of a time when the Old Custom was merely the day-to-day existence of our people. A time when we numbered barely enough to occupy our own aboriginal homeland. But at this time, these people of the sand and forest, rule an empire that makes our first attempts at empire blush. They traded with Riverfolk; not the black elves of Oman Ghur, but the lofty and wise elves of the southeastern continent. They built mighty ziggurats to their gods that dwarf our temples even to this day. And in this land without Treearchs to impose their indiscernible will upon them, they ruled the whole of their own continent. It is unclear exactly what happened to their empire. In their oral tradition, they say a question of succession lead to a brutal civil war, and a great burning of forest and jungle in the south. Some time thereafter, a people their stories do not identify came up out of the deep jungles in the far south, and purged the ebon-skinned men from the forest and jungles and treed-lands throughout the continent. That, couple with a disease they're convinced was unnatural in origin, appears to have been the cocktail that poisoned their great and learned empire. And now we, in our conviction of righteousness, call them our vassals. Patronizing, we 'extend the hand of civilization, education, and modernization' to richest of them in exchange for stripping their lands of all value, and forcing the rest of them to live in squalor within the pathetic palisades we tattoo the open hills with. Be careful, son to whom all my knowledge I pass. Take care daughter, to whom all my property goes. The rot which destroys all empires begins as the liquor of self-righteousness. Racism is the sore which evidences the disease of cultural bankruptcy. I fear soon it will be we that stand with a thousand tribes set against us, disease within, and civil war without, and neither shall we long survive."[/i] -Justin

I actually wear armor everywhere. It's not about fashion, though. It's about fascism. Nothing says "I'm here to be your absolute dictator" like a fine combat ready steel breastplate, equally awesome greaves and boots and a large, blood-soaked axe. But the most essential part of the would-be feudal fascist dictator's persona is his willingness to smite unsuspecting unworthies precisely between the eyes with his axe, claymore, mace, or whatever brutal weapon he chooses to make his statement with. Make-up, of course, is a no-go. But warpaint, on the other hand, is encouraged for any hopeful conqueror who has a sense of flair and can appropriately match his warpaint with his battle kilt, sash, or headband. Jewelry taken from the bereaved women of those silly fallen challengers may be worn as a battle prize, but this cannot be done modestly. It must be flamboyant, over-the-top, and slightly disturbing; so as not to be confused with a frilly pirate--whom you are NOT. For a night out on the town, I recommend a nice, full body cloak made from polar bear hide, or any equally endangered predator. To compliment that, try a sash(or belt) made from the scalps of vanquished foes and a modest crown forged from the artifacts taken from some holy site. Keep in mind, though, your crown shouldn't really so much be saying "I'm king"; it should say something more like "I'm gunning for king here, and I'll probably slay you over your broth to prove my point, so don't sass me." Of course, while entertaining guests, do so tastefully with mead laced with hallucinogens, that way they'll be encouraged to see you as the awe-inspiring demi-god that you are. Finally, any official ceremonies, vehicles, totems, ships, banners, fortresses, mead halls, or throne rooms should be adorned with a simple, but impressive, symbol of some kind. Mine is a silhouetted raven's foot, to remind my subjects and prospective subjects of the animals that will consume their mangled corpses should they resist me. -Justin

Understand the urgency; this is not a joke. Elders came back today, ashen faces. They could not extend the Veil. Treearch said no deal, couldn't interfere anymore. We're on our own. We have nowhere to run. Everyone is talking. Saying go back to Norsong. That won't work. Saying go around and south to Galur and hide in the desert. But we'd have to fight the Ryn tribe Goblins there and that'd would attract attention. Not to mention the Imperial Navy. The sea is theirs now. We have ten days before the Fog is lifted and the way is no longer shut. The Nation of Unon may decide to help, they may not, but in any case, we're going to have to fight. I want you to get the men ready for a night time incursion. There is a town called Nearwood on the westernmost border with the Fogwood. We're going to hit them there on the morning of the eleventh day, before sunrise. I hope that will send them gallivanting off in that direction, looking for a phantom. When that happens, we'll most a full offensive due south at the northern garrison, and a naval incursion at night to Westsheld En Port. We can only win by attack. Long stand we snakes, Brigade Chief Gnikal -Justin

Justin Who: Member since January 18, 2001, former King of all I Surveyed, former supermod, then supermod again, then just moderator several years later for a few months. Formerly Kam, and KAMAKAZI. I do understand the misspellage. Formerly three years older at any given point, and likely much cooler. Where: Currently(as in at this very moment) in Monterey, CA stationed at the Presidio with the US Navy. Very soon will be moving to NIOC Georgia. What: US Navy. Meh. When [i.e. Back Then]: I talked with Jenna(BabyGirl) more than anyone, but I also had a pretty good friendship with Sephiroth, Sara, Nerdsy, and a few others. Why: Because I'm waiting around, hands in pockets, looking back down the road. Favourite Things About OB: Me -Justin

I found Conan the Barbarian and Conan the Destroyer for $8 in Blockbuster last week. I made this big *** event out of watching them and all, only to get about half-way through Barbarian and turn it off. Turns out the world's not as epic with poor visual effects. -Justin

I ran over a baby with my pet wizard once, and it's mother started crying softly. Then I crushed her skull with a spiked vacuum cleaner because I don't like the sound of a mother's lamentation. I drank a cream soda afterward to relax, only to find it was A&W and not the IBC kind. I felt dumb about that. -Justin

[i]"By Order of Elder of the Eastern Star, Burn After Reading: I hope you realize how much trouble has come at your expense, so that you might receive the piece of paper you hold in your hand. As you well know, our Order has existed these millenia to ensure the safe-guarding of our people's oldest treaty; that is, the Call to Fight of the Council of the Star and Raven. Our ancient obligation to rise up and fight for the Wyri nation should the time come that the Northmen find them. That time is close at hand. We have it on good authority that the Fog will soon be lifted, and the Wyri's safe haven in the North of the Cellvar continent will be exposed to every wandering Northman pissing in the wood. And they have communicated to us that they will no longer run. This will not be an easy task, to say the least. In the intervening centuries the Northmen have become a powerful force. They have conquered our people twice, and have been our overlords now for nearly three hundred years. Moreover, the continent that is the home of the Cellvar Empire is on the other side of the world, making any serious incursion against them difficult in the extreme. A thousand years ago, we might have been able to summon an army to assault Middensheld City, or perhaps we might have sent an armada to siege the Northmen's ancestral homeland, Norsong. But now, after three continuous centuries of political, cultural, and economic domination, we are not the men we once were. But we have a plan. We're going to send a squadron of fast attack ships, and we're going to send them east. Rather than sail around the whole of Woadsheld--where we'd be subject to being seen on either side--or marching what forces we have to some continental target, we're going to attack the Citadel City directly. This may sound like suicide, and it may well be; but it is already in motion. We'll need you to move, precisely as directed in one final communication that is no doubt en route as you read this. There will be a package with this forthcoming letter. Take care with opening it. Use it wisely. Remember how they shamed our people at Grygg. Remember how they purge the town of Ohmn. Most of all, remember who you are: An Asir. An Asir subject to no Northman."[/i] -Justin

This is an account from the ruins of old Jaga: "[B][U]On the Origin of the Oris[/U][/B] The Oris. The very name encourages thoughts of anger and disdain in the ears of our people. However, my purpose is not politics. I wish to present a scientific hypothesis on the origin of our cultures oldest rival. One would be hard pressed to draw a line from the Seyas that inhabit the distant island Goor to the Orisi polyarchs that answer to Mar-xoth simply by sight. Of that, there's not much doubt. However, I present to you, a briefing on the parallels in the mythos of each as my first evidence of a shared origin: The Seyas--whom common folk called black elves--are a seafaring people by virtue of necessity. As such, their chief deity is also, necessarily, one of the sea. They call him Daryaban. Now, the Oris--orcs, to most--have no chief deity. And they honor thousands of gods in total. However, they honor a tribunal of gods that represent the sea. The figure which represents the sea's calm state is call Sol-darya. In addition, his father is called Sarnav, and was the..." As far as imperial archaeologists have found, this is the oldest human attempt to define the Orisic nation and the orcs as a people. It is, unfortunately, quite incomplete. As always, research into the lost civilization of Jaga continues, in so far as we are allowed to do so by the Confederated Cities of Marzhoth. -Justin

Ah, you Cajuns and your accent. Who dat? -Justin

[i]What a fucking day. I hate road patrol. Especially between the northern towns. This is the Wild North. It's strange to me that this 'august empire' can rule far flung territories like the Jagas, or Oman Ghur, but not even the whole of its own continent. We know more about the Old World, and rule more of it, than we do the New, which provides us our shelter from the Old. And that's why I hate these northern territories. We should leave them to whatever ghosts it is that want them. There are whispers, you know--among the townsfolk up here. They say that the Wyri live here...or did, in any case. That's their explanation for the pyramids. You should see them. Most aren't that big--though, some are--but they're perfect. I took geometry and trigonometry at the University and these things are perfect. I was also at Marzhoth, though briefly, and I saw the pyramids both there and at Jaga. Those are far inferior to these, though, admittedly, far older. But they do smack of a similar style. Not like those ziggurats of the Southern Gates in Wastes of Galur, but smooth, like cut diamond. Young enough, still though, that the stench of the builders seems to linger. I'm not one for fairy tales or killers beyond the wood, but these were build by an interesting, and advanced, culture. Which is why I don't buy the concept that the Wyri, if they still exist, built them. Were they here, on this side of the World, it wouldn't be a surprise. But, loathed as they are, they are still of our blood. They should've long spread throughout this land, as our kin have done throughout the ages since the War of the Seat all those centuries ago. Which brings the only logical conclusion any thinking man may make: They are not here. And if they are not here, they likely are not anywhere. Our people followed the dream of annihilating the Wyri as far as the southern side of the Midsheld before we simply began exploring for its own sake, I think. But chasing that old myth should be quite beyond us now. I can tolerate the superstitions of a few far flun colonists. But I cannot abide this notion taking root among my garrison. I've already sent for archeologists to dispel this notion and begin the study of these relics for the sake of science.[/i] -Justin

"It wasn't all that long ago they put us out, boys. They called us [i]nah berakiunek[/i], cursed few, yeah? Now, they will call us the 'cursed horde' because the Northerners have given us what we need for our retribution. We've lived too long apart from the old ways. Our fathers fought the [i]Alghir Eslami[/i] until they could no longer hold their own swords. Too long have we scrounged from this island refuge for the scraps of other civilizations. But now, we are many. Now, we have a fleet of warships. We were first outcasts. Then, pirates. Then, traders. But now, we will have a nation of our own. Let no Ahnsan, man, khun-asham, nor any other being under the sun or beyond her doubt the strength of the Ahnsan of Alqadeh, whom the men from the north call black elves." More leaflets. They were everywhere these days. From Markez to Halacat, and even in what little rural country was left on this over crowded island, Oman Ghur. It had been more than three thousand years since the Syliirians had forced the ancestors of our people out of the Land of the River, the Holy River, it was said. People like whomever had written that last leaflet made a good show of nationalism, but honestly, it's not something we have in surplus. Take me for example: I don't speak much of the old languages. I speak the language of the Cellvar Empire--the Northmen. All of us do. But now--who knows why--the Rahbar have decided they want to claim their old lands in the Syliir Valley. They're using crusader speak to try and gain the support of the people. I'm just a sergeant in the merchant fleet marines. If we go to war, though, I'll get mine. -Justin

I'm not exactly gung-ho, really, but I am a service member. And I can say that the raising and lowering of the [i]ensign[/i] has a special place in the heart of almost any of us, to one degree or another. I agree that extreme patriotism [i]is[/i] the cousin to fanaticism, and has certainly killed as many, but I wouldn't take colors from a 90-year-old veteran who has the salt to wake up and execute every morning. Even if he is a soldier boy. -Justin

"It's been some time since I saw your kind around here." Justin was startled out of a day dream by the surly bartender. It'd been two weeks since he left the Order. A couple days of that he spent in transit here--Tattooine. The rest, he'd spent somewhere between drunk and hammered. He was listing toward the drunk side today. "What the hell are you talking about old man?" Justin snarled over his empty glass, adding a oppressive edge to his voice with the Force. "Exactly." And that was all the old bartender would say. Sensing no danger, Justin rather rudely, refilled his own drink. He'd move on to a different cantina tomorrow, just to avoid the apparent awkwardness in this one. He didn't like to be noticed. About the time that thought crossed his mind, he suddenly became aware that he [i]was[/i] being noticed. Not only that, but he was being [i]encouraged[/i] in that loving Jedi fashion not to notice that he was being noticed. His drunked rage began to stir. Shahrizai immediately sensed Justin's rage. He had sensed her. He was better than she'd thought. His time with Jenna had broken him, that she'd known. But clearly, he'd begun to rebuild his damged mind. Perhaps, though, not as the Order would like to see it. He wouldn't see her. He could sense her. But she could evade his attention, if she wanted to. Dressed so outlandishly, even if he saw her, he wouldn't take her for a Jedi. It was time to make her move. "Hello there, stranger. New to the desert?" Justin didn't restrain the irritation in his voice. He hated being interupted. "Hello, [i]darling[/i]. No, this isn't my first trip to the sandbox, thank you." "Hmm. Could've fooled me, sweetie." There was more to this girl than met the eye; and that was a lot at the moment. She appeared to be coming on to him, but he wasn't looking for a good time. "Hey, old man. Get the the lady a drink on me." Justin turned to face the lovely lady, "Miss, I'm afraid I didn't come here for a vacation. But you enjoy yourself. Good day." The desert suns always, always seemed to glare just to spite Justin's drunkedness. But even their unbearable gaze didn't purge him of his dreams. Dreams within dreams within visions of dreams. Dreams of two lives gone far from their beginning. And then rage filled his heart. "Seth...Sarah...Jenna. Seth...Sarah." Children chant in unison the words of the shadow they called 'father'. Their mother becomes a whore to the galaxy, and the unfaithful bride of power. Bright red hair grays prematurely, and green eyes seem to wither into that sickly yellow that only the most consumed souls can see through. All the while, Justin's self withers in silence and exile. One moment, the bitter man he is--the next, a half crippled old hermit by the age of 50. Hatred consuming what is left of himself. His life is darkened by loneliness, not lust for power. And when death recieves him, it is into an eternity of the same. "[i]Peace...[/i]" An echo seemed to float listlessly across the universe and struck him with the sound of a trickling waterfall. It was once his favorite sound. It was a sound of overwhelming power; but of a powerful peace. A peace that, when necessary, could swell to drown out war. "[i]Peace...all is well with you. For you have loved and been loved. Weep no more. Dream no more. I have seen your heart, and all is well with you, though you don't yet see it.[/i]" And laying in his small bed in the small desert hostel, Justin slept in peace for the first time in weeks. He awoke from a dreamless peace with a burning sensation of danger. He awoke, as he so often did, groping for his saber, and finding only a vibroblade. A poor substitute, but he had little love for blasters. Whom-or what-ever had set off his dangersense had apparently left. He reached out with his senses, and found his room empty except for a single other sleeping occupant. But wait...not quite. It was faint. Not living, but the [i]trace[/i] of something living. A pattern scratched into his bed. Old pictographs, vaguely familiar. He reached into his mind, looking for a matching pattern. The mood of the message was certainly dark, and it's author had scratched it in slowly, but deeply. The work of something possesed of a slow and burning hatred. It wasn't of any kind of blatantly menacing origin. Not Sith, nor any larger schismatic sect. But still, this was craven death. The tone could not be missed. The closest connection he could make in his mental datum was the semi-runic language of the Dimari cult. But who or what the fuck would be scratching something like into his bedpost as he slept? The message was illegible with his knowledge, but there was more to be deduced here. Whomever did this clearly was gifted of the Force and of stealth. He'd woken up when they wanted him to, and not before. And in this way, they were telling him, "I know things you do not, and you are subject to me because of that." However, he'd not been harmed that he could sense. Nor had his sleeping roomate. They were dangerous, but not eminently so...He was virtually snatched out of his observative mode by a new detail: A distinctive burn on the floor. Only lightsabers make such burns. This could be easily brushed aside, but this too was a message. "I am like you in many ways." ----------------------------------------- "This is the other side of the looking glass, my love. This is the far side of reality. This is the wasteland between love and hate. I am you, reborn. Reborn in the dirt of that jungle moon, far from here. You need only push away the after-birth, and awaken anew." "Dreams. Fucking dreams. Peace has passed over me, leaving behind my dreams. Lifeless dreams. The accursed suns of this accursed planet shrink into hot balls of white death, then go super nova, then all is silent. I am the reaper." Seven months he'd been on Tattooine. He was the captive of Tusken raiders now. Nomadic, loud, and smelling like bantha shit; much like Justin himself. It'd been a month that he'd been on the move; "captive" of these people. He was no captive. This was just his next step of the ladder of total annihilation of his former self. And the raiders were beginning to notice. "Hey, smelly. Mind giving me some water, I'm getting a little dizzy here." The fact that several of these Sand People weren't Sand People at all didn't surprise Justin. Many were tales of Outlanders gone native. He figured that type of thing was as old as colonization. The Tusken knelt beside him cautiously. "You know, friend, we don't like you anymore than you like us." He obligded him the water. "The problem is ,[i]friend[/i], you don't know what to do with me. The natives are terrified of me, and they're starting to question you non-natives about me. Problem with that is, you don't know anymore than they do; and you're just as scared." "Why did you let us take you without a fight?" "Because I want to be lost." "Here? Ha, you'll be like me before long then." "I wouldn't count on it. I hate this planet. I [i]hate[/i] you. I hate these people. And that is exactly why I am here." The spark in Justin's eye made the Tusken step back. "What the fuck is your problem, shit-eater?" "You. Them. Maybe even me." Justin drank his water, and rolled back over. He was asleep again in seconds. "This is my weapon. This weapon is my strength. My strength is the beginning of my freedom. My freedom is the beginning of my power. My power is the means to order. Order is the method of achieving peace. The peace of the sword." The prayer resonnated across space, and Justin felt it was being uttered right then. Right then, on the lips of a hundred young minds; some of them dying, some of them believing they would soon. Two of them were faces he'd come to expect. There was no sadness this time. No pit to fill with booze or self-destruction. He'd found the bottom of the hole. He felt his heart as ice. Hot ice. His eyes snapped open. It was fast. Had anyone he once knew seen it, they'd have been as shocked as his captors. He was totally unarmed, and utterly deadly. He moved like a storm, cracking a spinal cord here, the tearing off a bottom jaw there. He went airborne and came down so hard on the shoulders of one of the non-natives that it turned his shoulder blades into shards, along with his neck. Next he grabbed a raider by the left arm and tore it from its socket, then double back hand spring and kicked the throat in of another. When he stopped moving, none were left alive, and none had fired a shot. He had brought death to the dead. This had been their fate, he said. "I am the reaper." ------------------------- "I saw him, my lover. As clear as I see you now. He is lost." Smiling lips betray a false confidence. This isn't unnoticed, but it is left be. "He has always been lost. I swam in his mind, and found it full of self-hatred and weakness. He is a weeper." The scars along the face of darkness twist like a living vine with the scowl. There is nothing hidden behind it. "A trait his seed did not carry." A inflection of hope that no one less astute could've caught. "We will see. I have many children. And many more that no longer breathe. I can see through you as easily as anyone, my dear. You call me lover. You cannot love me unless you hate me. And you cannot hate me unless I betray you. You're too useful for me to hurt you myself. But I will make you love me, because I will make you hurt yourself." "I--I don't understand." Nearly grovelling. "You are a ruthless killer. You've become a cold teacher of my children. But you are still weak. You have felt hate, but only because you seek love. You found love, but because you seek power, you crushed that love. Power is the truest love. And now, like a fool, you lose sight of power. You will kill someone for me. You will not want to. But you will, because you know if you do not, I will take all love and power from you as easily as I gave it to you." "I have no fear." "Wrong!" The spectre suddenly grew to an oppressive, choking cloud. The scarred face at its heart. "Do not presume to tell me what you have and do not have." "Forgive me...I didn't mean to be--" "Wrong again!" The walls of the ancient structure shook with the hate of his voice. "You do exactly what you mean to, exactly because you are weak. And I will burn this from your soul." "Mother." A young boy, about 5 years enters the chamber. His eyes speak of many more years than his body. "Yes, Seth?" "Who is the man who walks on the sky?" A whirl of red hair surround her as she turns to face the shadow, but he is not there. A soft breeze fills the chamber, and cold. "Kill for me, my love." She turns back to the boy. "He died, son. He died because he was foolish, and weak. He died alone and in pain. And I killed him." "Then why do I see him when I sleep? I can't sleep anymore, Mother." "Does your sister see him?" "No. She says it's because I'm weak." "That is not true. You're stronger than you know, but we have to teach you how to kill your dreams. You shouldn't lose sleep for the dead." -Justin